If she's a bat, I'll be her piece of fruit.
If she's the land, I will settle down,
and stoop to fill with ocean, or to drown.

Song From the Body of the World

" Inevitable, the body of the
world
Weeps in inventive dust for the
hiatus
that winks above it, bluet in your breasts."
--Hart Crane

1

Since the hiatus between all the searching
opens wherever I want it to go,
and since I am made of a body that ages
already wept for, and already gave
up for you, listen, and just once please fall
down to my hands; let this weeping be all;

with your breasts lost, once, in fog, as I counted
driving cascades all the way up to cloud,
I looked up slowly and found that before me
hung a small flower. I worshipped aloud.

"Bluet," I called it--knowing it would last
only as long as the blue in the sky
arching down to me. Then I saw the petals
pull from their center and began to cry
(Yes, I am listening, answered the bluet;
that's what I wanted, and now I will fall.)